


wax/wane

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Drug Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 21:10:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7377481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things will come full circle for Kent – he's sure of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wax/wane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [familiar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/familiar/gifts).



> **familiar** : Probably when Jack's super drugged out he like, wets the bed, or he's too out of it to deal with it so Kent basically has to like, aim for him  
>  **kihv** : oh my god dude. I want to read that but I don't know if I have it in me to write it.
> 
> Well, guess what, I did have it in me.
> 
> CP by Ngozi

### ○ - 12/10/11

Tonight’s one of those bad nights, the kind when Kent looks up at the moon and thinks, _Jack’s under you, too._

It seems surreal sometimes, remembering that room above the garage at his billet family’s house. He cultivated something there, in that hideaway with the double bed and green wallpaper, something real and warm and beautiful, and although now it is strewn across the sky from Vegas to Samwell, he’s going to get it back someday.

He’s going to get him back.

### ◑ - 10/11/09

Jack almost dies – but he doesn’t. He’s stable and conscious; they put a breathing tube down his throat. He’s going to be okay; they have him in an actual room now. The Twix bar Kent gets out of the vending machine in the waiting room is stale, but he eats it anyway. Alicia’s words sear through his brain: _“You_ knew _he was taking it with alcohol!?”_

### ● - 5/17/09

As soon as they’re in Kent’s room, Jack hangs his head and says in the saddest, softest voice, “I need you to fuck me. Please.”

“Okay. Okay,” Kent says, crumbling. “I’ll fuck you. I can do that. You need anything else?”

“Don’t say anything about the playoffs.”

“I won’t,” Kent says. “I promise.”

Kent gives Jack what he needs, pushing into him slowly, though he wishes he could dive into him completely, get inside his brain and yank out whatever’s in there that makes Jack such a wreck. It’s got to be some faulty gear, some extraneous machinery or something, that sends fear into overdrive for Jack. Sure, Klonopin gets it to simmer down a bit, even shut it down fully for a couple hours when coupled with booze, but whatever it is, it’s got some truly miserable staying power. The only thing Kent can really do here is fuck the boy he loves when he asks. Yet this, too, will be only a reprieve. Kent buries his face in Jack’s neck and stays very still.

Jack is quiet and heavy around and beneath him, everywhere and eons away, mumbling on some sleepy planet, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m laying here for a minute,” Kent murmurs. He rubs his forehead against the base of Jack’s skull and thinks the things so uselessly said with his mouth: _we’ve got this; we’re gonna win, Zimms, me and you, power couple!; don’t think about the draft, don’t think about your fucking dad, just think about winning!; I got your back – I always do; you just gotta chill out, tell yourself to relax; you’ve got nothing to worry about; I’ve got you; you’re never alone; God, I love you so much._

Kent wraps his arms around him and starts moving. Jack’s long sighs flatten into whispers and then quiet, and by the time Kent finishes, Jack has dozed off.

Kent says, “Oh, no, Jacky, c’mon. You said you wouldn’t do that.”

Jack’s eyelids flicker with reluctance before squeezing shut. “S’fine.”

That works for Kent – his concern vanishes. Because he trusts Jack, that’s why. Sighing, he says to him, “You gotta get up and pee, Zimms. It’s been like, four hours.”

“Tired,” Jack says, wincing.

Kent takes his wrist and, tugging on it, says, “No, get up. I don’t want you to piss the bed again.”

Jack’s eyes shoot open, and he glares at Kent, dark and steely, no wildness, just contempt. “Don’t fucking bring that up.”

“Yeah, well,” Kent begins, but he swaps what he meant to say for a half-hearted “sorry.” The truth is, though, he’s sorry in full – sorry and sad and scared. He doesn’t want to be holding his boyfriend’s dick for him to pee because Jack’s so fucking out of it; he doesn’t want to see him downing Klonopin with vodka from a fucking water bottle; he doesn’t want to stay up after Jack falls asleep to make sure he doesn’t stop breathing.

He wants Jack to be okay, because he doesn’t seem like he is anymore.

### ◐ - 11/05/08

“Lemme see your slut tits, Jackie,” Kent growls, eliciting the one response he’s always after: the tiny whimper, the crawl of a darker red, the aversion of eyes. He goes for another goal: “I’m gonna breed this ass so good tonight, gonna dump babies in you, Jackie,” and scores again: a gasp, a swallow, and _“Oh, my God, please”_ stamped on his gaze. He goes for another: “Fuck, your ass is hungry. So hungry for my cock. Eat it, Jackie, fucking eat it.” And wins: Jack clenches around Kent and comes wildly, thrusting back and groaning, torn apart by it. Later, in the tub, it is Kent who is wrapped around Jack, their bodies now solid and detached, tangled loosely beneath the slide of lather.

“Thanks for not calling my ass fat,” Jack says. 

It is a struggle.

### ○ - 3/18/07

Kent feels like he’s high; everything coming out of his mouth is so goofy: “You’re so cute, dude,” he says, kissing all over Jack’s neck and jaw, devouring his laughter. “You’re so fucking cute, what the fuck.”

“I’m not!” Jack inevitably contends, squeezing the words out between laughs.

“No, _shhhhhhhh!”_ Kent chastises him. “Listen to what I tell you!”

Jack’s response is a touch eager, overly earnest: “Okay.”

 _Huh_ , Kent thinks. _Huh_.


End file.
